


What Happened After

by mskullgirl



Series: Of Boars and Wolves [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, the closest thing to fluff we're gonna get
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-01-26 22:49:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1705463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mskullgirl/pseuds/mskullgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to The Monster of Winterfell. Semi-fluffy domestic thramsay. But of course, considering it's Thramsay there's bound to be a few problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Names

            Taren’s injured hands were gentle as they raked through Ramsay’s hair, carefully snipping away black locks. The taller man sat stony eyed in front of the fire, hands folded in his lap. He had not said as much but Taren knew it pained him to cut his hair, even if he had been the one to suggest it.

            “People will recognize me.” He said, glancing in the water he was using to clean his wounds.

            “Not like this.” Taren said. “You look like a wildling.”

            “You’re not wrong.” Ramsay agreed, wincing as he wiped blood away from his face. He had been in a sorry state when he first arrived at the cottage, one eye nearly swollen shut, a split lip, and too many bruises to count. Even cleaned up a bit he looked a mess. The Tully soldiers had not shown him any kind of mercy; the fact that he had been able to find his way all the way to the cottage was a miracle.

            “I’d have thought you’d be long gone by now.” He continued, running a damp cloth over his arms and hands. “If I had known he were still here I would not have come.”

            “Where else would I be?” Taren asked, gingerly applying salve to the mess of cuts that covered Ramsay’s back. The dark haired man hissed at the contact but stayed still.

            “I don’t know. Home, with your father and sister perhaps.”

            “There’s nothing for me there.”

            “And there is here?” Taren shrugged. Ramsay remained quiet for a minuet, deep I thought.

            “I’ll leave tomorrow then.”

            “I doubt you’ll be standing by tomorrow.”

            “I’ll manage.”

            “This is your house.”

            “My mother’s house.” Ramsay corrected him. “And not anymore.”

            “Stay.” Taren said, trying to keep his tone casual. “I’ve an extra room.” Ramsay shook his head.

            “You’re insane.”

            “Maybe.”

 

            “Would you like to see?” Taren asked as the last inky strand fell to the floor. Ramsay nodded stiffly, taking the offered mirror. He stared at his reflection silently for a moment, fingers running through his now short hair.

            “It’s different.” Taren nodded.

            “You don’t look like a Ramsay Bolton anymore.”

 

            “Why Taren?” Ramsay had asked some time later as they sat down to a supper of rabbit stew. The white haired man shrugged.

            “I didn’t think Joffrey quite suited me.” Ramsay couldn’t help it; he laughed loud and long and, much to his own surprise, Taren found himself laughing along with him. They talked then, until the candles dwindled to stubs and the moon shone through the open window. When at last they retreated to separate rooms Taren found himself wishing he could run his hands through the taller man’s short black hair, knowing it was as soft as it looked. One pale hand slipped down the front of his pants, softly palming the empty space, a reminder. And he hated himself for ever laying eyes on Ramsay Bolton.

 


	2. Master and Servant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smutsmutsmutsmutsmut. Enjoy lovlies!

            The days pass quietly, although the tension is tangible. Taren has starts taking long walks through the surrounding woods. Sometimes he prays, sometimes he pounds his hands against the tree trunks until his knuckles bleed. If Ramsay notices the cuts he never says anything about it. Taren wonders why he always comes back. He wonder’s why Ramsay is always waiting for him.

            _Because you told him to._ Part of him whispers. _You asked him to stay. He told you to run but you didn’t._ It makes him want to cry. He’s almost forgotten what it was like to be in agony every waking moment. Almost. For so long now he had been happy. And every time he came back to the cottage he walked back into the fire, knowing full well it would burn him.

            So far Ramsay hadn’t hit him, he hadn’t even touched him more than was absolutely necessary. But Taren knew that while the monster in Ramsay would sometimes sleep it would never really die. Sooner or later he would snap again and strike out. He knew Ramsay knew it too. He had known that if he kept Taren with him he would hurt him again. And even though Taren suspected Ramsay loved him, in some twisted sort of way, he had let him go. Perhaps he had done so for that very reason.

            After a week Ramsay is almost fully healed, although he walks with a bit of a limp. They still hardly speak, almost never touch, though neither one seems likely to leave. In a way it becomes a bit of a challenge. Ramsay never falters, just watches Taren with those pale grey eyes. He takes in the smaller man’s bruised hands, his eyes swollen from crying with concern but never says speaks of it. It’s infuriating. Taren almost wants him to hit him, to hold a knife to his throat and fuck him hard against the table. Something, anything to break the damn tension.

            At last he can’t take it anymore. He’s returning home from work and sees Ramsay washing dishes in the yard and the very idea of the proud lord of Dreadfort doing menial work is laughable. He does not see Taren approach and pauses briefly, pushing a lock of hair from his eyes. It’s such a casual gesture but for some reason it makes anger start to grow in the pit of Taren’s stomach. Before can he stop himself he crosses the yard, grabs Ramsay’s face roughly, and kisses him. There’s nothing gentle in it; Taren kisses him the way he rides into battle. He’s mildly surprised when Ramsay doesn’t take control, doesn’t backhand him for his insolence, doesn’t force him to his knees and fuck his mouth. He just stands there and lets Taren kiss him. Taren growls in frustration, tugging at Ramsay’s clothes impatiently.

            “Well?” He says, eyes alight with anger. “Get on with it then. Or do you only want to fuck me when I’m covered in shit and blood?”

            “Taren-“ Ramsay protests.

            “Do you want me to beg?” He snaps. “Just fuck me. I know you want to. I see you looking at me. What are you waiting for? Just take what you want the same way you always do.” Ramsay cuts him off with a kiss, pulling Taren towards him so that his feet leave the floor. They stumble to the door in a tangle of limbs and manage to find their way to Ramsay’s bedroom. As Taren falls to him knees Ramsay shakes his head, pulling him back up and pressing a belt into the smaller man’s hand. Taren blinks at him in confusion.

            “What-?”

            “Tie me up.” Ramsay says, holding his wrists out. “Hit me, fuck me, I won’t stop you. Anything you want.” Taren hesitates, waiting for some kind of trick. Ramsay quickly undresses and lies down on the bed, arms raised above his head. He’s staring at Taren with desperate eyes, completely submissive. Taren could beat him with the belt; he could flay the skin from his chest or break his teeth with a hammer. Something about the position brings tears to his eyes.

            The belt is smooth in his hands as he loops it around Ramsay’s wrists, pulling it tight. He bites down on the pulse throbbing beneath his jaw, drawing blood. Ramsay groans and bucks against him but there’s nothing he can do. It’s intoxicating and Taren swears that he could get drunk on the taste of Ramsay’s skin. He groans embarrassingly loudly when he finally sinks down on the dark haired man’s cock. From this angle he can see every emotion that passes over Ramsay’s face. He sees how his eyes bulge slightly and his mouth opens in a silent ‘oh.’ He sees the sweat gather on his skin as Taren fucks him, sees his muscles straining against the bonds. Taren comes with a cry; head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut. A desperate moan echo’s from Ramsay’s lips as he tilts his hips up desperately, trying to get enough friction to take him over the edge.

            “Tell me you want me.” Taren growls at him, hips snapping against Ramsay’s mercilessly.

            “Gods I want you.” Ramsay says breathlessly. Taren nips at his neck, hands tracing over the still bruised skin.

            “Do you want to come?”  Ramsay nods furiously, keening desperately.

            “Beg me.” Ramsay bites his lip as Taren raked his fingernails down his chest.

            “Please let me come.” He pleads and the noise is music to Taren’s ears. “I need to come please, please fuck me!” In three harsh thrusts Taren grants his wish. For several moments afterwards they stay there, breathing heavily.

            “Do you love me?” Taren demands, looking down into slate grey eyes. He can see the answer in them but he needs to hear it from Ramsay’s own lips. Ramsay looks at him with a sad sort of tenderness, lips red and swollen from kissing.

            “Of course I do.”

 


	3. Illusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait guys. I've had writers block and I could seriously use some encouragement. Hope you enjoy!

            Taren had forgotten what this had felt like, the hunger that came with the first few weeks of a love affair. Ramsay had only to look at him or tilt his head to the side to make Taren’s blood boil. When this happened he backed the taller man up against the nearest available surface and kissed him harshly, hands palming the front of the other man’s trousers. Ramsay is still much stronger than Taren and could easily push him away but he never does. He pretends that Taren is the one in control; he bucks against his lover desperately, moaning like a whore. He begs Taren to touch him, to fuck him, anything. And even though he knows it’s all an illusion Taren plays along. The rich heady feeling of power is just to good to ignore.

            Over the next several days they fuck on just about every surface in the cottage, the floor, the table, the wall, in the large steel tub in the center of the living room. They don’t talk much and Taren is grateful for it. He doesn’t know if he can bear to hear Ramsay’s apologies. They won’t help anything. Ramsay apologizes in his own way, as he kisses the mangled stumps Taren once called fingers, and he softly caresses the scar between his legs, as he whispers how beautiful Taren is while they fuck. It makes something in Taren’s chest tighten; his missing fingers throb with phantom pain. But Ramsay never touches him harshly, not even when he is angry or hurt. Instead he leaves, not coming back for hours. Taren notices the bruises on his hands but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to know where they come from.

            Once again Taren finds himself hoping against hope that this is a new beginning. They don’t speak about what happened at Dreadfort; they don’t speak about anything that had happened before they came to this place. But Taren still wakes up screaming in the middle of the night and finds himself face to face with the cause of the nightmares. Ramsay still gets that angry, cold, look in his eyes and for a few moments they both are afraid that he will strike out. He never does though, and Taren hopes that this illusion, this perfect lie will last. But of course, it never does.

 


	4. Get Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's when things go to shit. I really want to make this end happily but I've kinda written myself into a corners so help.

            Surprisingly it’s Taren that snaps first. Ramsay and him were walking in the village, gathering some supplies, simple things, firewood, flour, other necessities. At first Ramsay was worried about being recognized in town but he needn’t have worried. No one paid the odd pair much mind; everyone was too wrapped up in their own lives. The air was cold and harsh and many people shivered against the chill. Winter was coming.

            As they prepared to head back home, when had the cottage become home, something caught Taren’s eye. A little ways away a young man was walking with a boy on his shoulders. The child squealed and giggled, grabbing onto the man’s hair with plum little hands. Despite the cold the man smiled, whinnied like a horse and broke into a slow gallop. The boy screeched in delight and Taren could hear him yelling “Gidyup!” in a little boy lisp. Something inside Taren began to ache terribly, as though someone had punched him in the stomach. He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes fixed on the retreating father and son. Ramsay observed him silently, aware that something was wrong but not knowing what. The walk home was tense and hurried, neither of them breaking the uneasy silence.

            When they finally entered the cottage Tare dropped his belongings on the kitchen table and hurried to start a fire without so much as glancing at Ramsay.

            “You’re upset.” Ramsay said cautiously, careful not to get too close to the angry man.

            “How observant.” Taren snapped, tossing a handful of twigs into the fireplace. Back at Dreadfort the remark would have earned him kick in the ribs if not worse but Ramsay stayed silent.

            “What’s wrong?” Ramsay asked, placing a hand on Taren’s tense shoulder. The smaller man shrugged it off as though he had been hit.

            “What do you care?”

            “Taren please…”

            “Do you remember what you said about that word?” Taren cut him off, eyes alight with anger. “That if I said it again you’d flay my chest? Do you have any idea how many times I wanted to yell it, beg you to just stop? But I never did, not even when you beat me and flayed me. I bit my lip so hard it bled trying not to say it. But you didn’t care because you would just hurt me anyways. Over and over.” The smaller man glared up at Ramsay, the fire crackling in the background. “Why?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you just kill me? What did I ever do to make you hate me so much?”

            “Taren-.”

            “Do you want to know why the father and his child upset me?” Taren asked furiously. “It’s because I can never have that! I can never father a child, never teach him to shoot an arrow or use a sword. You took that away from me. Because of your own sadistic desires I can never be normal again. I can never live the life I wanted to. You were right; I’m a freak now, not even a man. All because of you!”

            “You want children?” Ramsay asked slowly, clearly trying to tread carefully. Taren threw up his hands in frustration.

            “I don’t know. Maybe. That’s not the point. I could have someday, if I’d wanted to but I can’t now. I can’t.” Tears began to stream down his face in great torrents. Ramsay moved forward, mouth open in an attempt to speak.

            “Don’t.” Taren said, raising his hands. “Don’t touch me.” Ramsay’s eyes screamed apologies but he dutifully stopped.

            “Get out.” Taren said softly, gesturing at the door.

            “I love you.” Ramsay whispered, looking down at the floor, looking like a lost little boy. Taren didn’t respond, just pointed at the door, not meeting Ramsay’s eyes. He did not look up until the door slammed closed and he could no longer hear footsteps. When he stumbled to bed and squeezed his eyes shut. The sheets still smelled like Ramsay and Taren clutched them to his chest as he cried. It wasn’t until early morning that the fire died out.

           

 


	5. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this is the last chapter (I think) and I cried so much writing it that I'm honestly really embarrassed. Please please review and let me know what you think. This has been an amazing journey and I love and appreciate all of those who have stuck with me through it all.

             Days past slow as molasses and Taren could barely bring himself to get out of bed to light the fire and eat a bit of gruel. He caught himself looking out the window, half expecting to see a familiar dark figure walking towards him. Each time he was met with an empty landscape of grey and white. He was forced to admit that his tormenter was really gone.

            _But he’s not really._ Taren thought as he glanced at his own reflection in the frosty windowpane. _He’ll never really be gone._ He saw Ramsay every time he looked down at his deformed hands, every time he undressed to bathe. He saw those clear eyes in the ice that crept up the windows, the dark hair in the night sky. He could ever be free from him because even now he belonged to him. The thought made Taren want to punch something, to lay with a woman, to cut into his own white skin. But he never did.

            A month or so later, Taren was wakened by an insistent tapping on his window. Groaning he dragged himself out of bed and went to investigate the source of the noise. A very damp, very angry looking raven stood perched on the other side of the glass, a roll of parchment tied to it’s leg. Puzzled, Taren opened the window and placed the trembling creature in front of the fire. The raven cawed bitterly, fluffing its frosty wings.

            The note was short but the handwriting was familiar. Taren collapsed into a chair, reading the note softly to himself.

            _I know I have no right, but I must ask that you ride to Mole’s Town as quickly as you can. I will never ask another thing from you if you will just do this. There are things I would talk of with you. I am not a man to beg but I am begging you now. Please Taren._

            The note was not signed; it did not need to be. For a while Taren merely sat there, staring at the letter until the words began to blur before his eyes. Finally, he turned the paper over and scrawled two words on the back.

            _I’ll come._

 

            Mole’s Town was a dismal little place, dirty and ragged with people to match. If he squinted Taren could see the imposing line of the wall far in the distance. His horse’s hooves sink deep in the mud as the walk along through streets filled with trash and filthy snow. Taren didn’t quite know what Ramsay’s plan was once he arrived; he had been given no instructions of where to go.

            Luckily for him he ran into the person he was looking for moments later. Ramsay stood in the center of town, clad in black. In a town run amok with bastards and criminals he hardly stood out. But Taren would have known him anywhere.

            He tentatively dismounted, holding the horse’s reigns in a shaking hand. He opened his mouth to call out to Ramsay but no words came out. Luckily the taller man turned at that moment and saw him. For a few moments neither one moved or spoke. Finally, after the silence had grown more than uncomfortable Ramsay cleared his throat nervously.

            “Hello.” Taren’s grip on the reigns tightened but he did not turn and leave.

            “Hello.” He replied in a horse voice. The silence continued.

            “Would you like to get a drink?” Ramsay asked awkwardly.

            “Oh gods yes.”

 

            Taren didn’t know what he had been expecting when Ramsay led them to a nearby pub but it wasn’t the mayhem that met them inside. Several large men sat around tables, tankards of ale clutched in their hands. Whores flitted about, their skin dirty and covered with sores. Taren guessed they might have had 10 teeth between them. What was worse, the entire place stank of piss, sex, and rotten food.

            “Charming little place isn’t it?” Ramsay said dryly, shifting slightly as a chicken bone went hurdling past them. Taren didn’t answer, only pursed his lips anxiously. The noise, the smell, the sight of dogs fighting over scraps on the floor was all too familiar to him.

            _Reek._ He thought automatically. _It rhymes with weak, freak, sneak._ Ramsay seemed to sense Taren’s distress and moved them to a table far away from the crowd. The distance and the strong ale helped a bit.

            “I’m surprised you came.” Ramsay said at last, cradling his mug in his hands.

            “So am I.” Taren said, not looking up from his drink.

            “Theo- Taren look at me.” Slowly the small man looked up until his eyes met cold grey ones.

            “What I did to you is unforgivable.” Ramsay said softly. “And I know an apology won’t change that.” Taren nodded darkly, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “You weren’t the first person I hurt. Not by a long shot. I won’t lie to you and say that I don’t still want to. But you were the first person, the very first person who I ever regretted hurting.” The surprised Taren and it showed in his face. Ramsay shifted slightly, obviously uncomfortable.

            “I’m very selfish you know.” He said. “I can’t promise I’ll never hurt you again, I can’t give you what you really want. And I know that the best thing I can possibly do for you is to let you go.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “I told you to leave once before this, in the forest as I lay cut open on the ground. I’ll ask you one last time and if you tell me to go I will get on a ship and never bother you ever again.” One look at his face showed that he was telling the truth.

            “Why did you bring me here?” Taren asked at last, trying hard not to let his emotions show in his voice.

            “The truth?” The smaller man nodded. Ramsay bit his lip, looking conflicted but eventually stood and turned towards the backroom.

            “Follow me.” Wordlessly, Taren obeys, expecting a knife, a fist, every imaginable type of pain. The one thing he was not expecting to see when they entered the small room was a small, swaddled bundle laid to bed in a basket. The child couldn’t be much older than a few months, a pale, round, little thing with a dusting of dark hair on the top of its head. For a fleeting moment Taren thought the infant was Ramsay’s but the eyes looking back at him were rich, earthy brown, not grey. Still, Ramsay walked over and gently lifted the infant as tenderly as a father.

            “What is this?” Taren asked at last eyes wide with shock.

            “A wildling child.” Ramsay said, shifting the baby to a more comfortable position. “His mother was a whore here, one of Craster’s kin that managed to get away. She wasn’t here a week before they tracked her down and cut her throat. The child was hidden. I heard it cry.” Taren could only stare, not processing the situation.

            “They wanted to kill it.” Ramsay continued. “And for some reason I didn’t let them.” Shakily, Taren reached out and touched the side of the infant’s face. The boy didn’t scream or cry at the touch, only stared up at the man with wide, curious eyes. And suddenly he knew why Ramsay had written him, why he had saved the child from certain death. Because Taren looked at the small boy and saw another child, a lonely, neglected child in desperate need of a home. He saw a little boy with black hair and colorless eyes that had come into the world unwanted and a boy with curly hair who sat crying on a beach. Ramsay couldn’t take back the past but he could make sure that this child never had to experience it. It was a desperate plea, a quiet call for help that Taren heard even if Ramsay wasn’t willing to admit it. It was an apology.

            “What’s his name?” Taren asked at last, glancing up at Ramsay. The dark haired man shrugged.

            “No one ever gave him one. I’ve been calling him little cub. Do you have one in mind?” Taren shook his head.

            “He’ll need warm clothes.” He said at last. “The cottage walls don’t keep out the cold. We should get him a bow too; he’ll be up and walking before long and someone is going to have to teach him to shoot.” Ramsay looked at him in disbelief and Taren could have sworn that his eyes shone a bit more than usual.

            “Yes,” he said shakily            placing his hand atop Taren’s on the child’s cheek. “I suppose someone will.”

            _I wonder,_ Taren thought as he squeezed the offered hand, lacing their fingers together. _When he grows older, what name will he choose for himself?_

           


End file.
